


A Feasting Presence Full of Light

by victorine



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Magic Realism, Murder Husbands, Pining, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Radiance Anthology, What else is new, Will is snarky, hannibal is besotted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-04 08:41:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13360773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorine/pseuds/victorine
Summary: In his mind’s eye, Hannibal has often seen Will as a pillar of light, surrounded by the flames of his fever or a glowing aura of righteous violence. His imagination has painted Will in the soft flicker of candle flame and shafts of afternoon light, slanted and speckled with motes of dust. Yet the first time he notices the sparkle in Will’s eyes after their fall together, he believes it merely the return of health to his body after so many long months of healing.Soon though, it becomes clear that something strange is happening to Will, beyond either man's control or understanding, and Hannibal begins to fear losing him all over again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution to the amazing Radiance anthology, produced by [Love Crime Books](http://lovecrimebooks.tumblr.com). I want to say thank you so much to the team behind the project, for the opportunity to be featured in such a beautiful book alongside many of my fellow fannibals. It's an honour to be included.
> 
> I also want to thank my betas HotMolasses and TigerPrawn, without whom I never would have finished this fic. I love you both to the moon and back <3<3<3
> 
> The title and epigraph are taken from Shakespeare's "Romeo and Juliet." The fic was inspired by the play's use of light and dark imagery - in it, Romeo and Juliet must meet in the darkness and hide in the light, yet both describe each other's beauty with images of light. This kind of metaphorical duality seemed to fit our murder husbands and the book's theme perfectly, and thus this fic was born. Yes, I am exactly that pretentious xD.

_Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon._

\-- William Shakespeare, _Romeo and Juliet_ , Act 2, scene ii

 

**One.**

 

In his mind’s eye, Hannibal has often seen Will as a pillar of light, surrounded by the flames of his fever or a glowing aura of righteous violence. His imagination has painted Will in the soft flicker of candle flame and shafts of afternoon light, slanted and speckled with motes of dust. Yet the first time he notices the sparkle in Will’s eyes after their fall together, he believes it merely the return of health to his body after so many long months of healing. Not merely physical well-being but, perhaps for the first time in his life, something approaching psychological balance too. Will seems – and Hannibal spends much of his time scrutinising the younger man in order to confirm this – content, and so it follows that his smile is blindingly bright, his skin glowing with life.

Perhaps it is selfish blindness on Hannibal’s part. He has rarely desired anything so greatly as he does Will’s acceptance of himself and a life with Hannibal. And so he takes delight in what should be warning signs, allowing himself to believe that he is seeing Will the way he has always wanted to, gleaming with life and vitality, like the edge of a blade perfectly honed to fatal sharpness.

Still, there are limits to what he can ignore, even for Will’s sake. They are walking back to the apartment Hannibal has acquired for them, Will having finally been persuaded that it is safe for them to be out in public. The streetlights are few and far between in this tucked away little lane, such that their sodium glow does not carry far enough to cover Will’s own subtle light. 

Hannibal hangs back to observe this strange phenomenon, watching as the faint halo surrounding Will causes the air around him to shimmer, as if a heat haze has gathered around him in the midst of frost-bound Geneva.

“Aren’t you coming? I’m freezing out here, Hannibal, this coat you got for me has no practical value, you know.” Will stomps his feet and adds, “And these boots are useless. I don’t care how much they cost, they’re letting in so much water I might as well be barefoot.”

Hannibal barely listens, entranced to find that when Will lifts his feet it gives the effect of two small spotlights blinking on and off. Apparently whatever is causing the strange effect is strong enough to make it through a thick layer of Italian leather, as well as Will’s socks.

“Hannibal?”

It is as if Will has begun to manufacture his own bioluminescence, like the fireflies Mischa was so fond of. As if he has become his own living tribute, a rebirth of the beautiful death he gave Chiyoh’s prisoner, the gift he left for Hannibal.

“ _Hannibal?_ ” Will is close now, taking the last few steps towards Hannibal, concern in his tone at the other man’s enraptured gaze.

“Do you see?” Hannibal asks, and Will visibly balks at the question. His reaction finally pulls Hannibal from his reverie and he reaches a hand out as if to soothe him, though he does not touch, in the end. They don’t touch anymore. “What happened just then, Will?”

Will runs a hand over his face and then gives Hannibal one of his tight, fleeting smiles. “Christ, you just… he used to say that to me. Hobbs. When he was in my head, he would ask that, over and over. _See? Do you see?_ ” Will sounds haunted, though it has been years since Hobbs’ residence in his mind.

The explanation catches Hannibal’s attention and worry suddenly pricks at him. Will has given no sign that he has noticed the glow emanating from him, and Hannibal is suddenly aware that this is perhaps because there is no glow at all. Perhaps he has finally succumbed to the madness that so many have accused him of, that he was indeed convicted of, though more as a means of preserving a fascinating specimen than a result of actual evidence. This is, and Hannibal sees no reason in lying to himself about it, more worrying than the idea that something strange but as yet seemingly innocuous is happening to Will. Hannibal is confident in his ability to treat, or at least manage, any physical ailment either one of them may suffer from. But for his mind to be compromised holds the threat of losing not just himself but Will too, of being separated into two planes of consciousness where neither can reach the other.

“Hannibal?” Will calls his name a third time and peers into his face. He sees worry there but clearly mistakes its origins for concern for his own state of mind. “It’s ok, Hannibal. You didn’t intend to remind me. Forget about it.” Unusual for him to misread, but understandable. Hannibal allows it to slide, murmuring his acquiescence. Will looks at him strangely for a moment but then turns towards home, Hannibal’s very own beacon in the dark. He follows; where else would he go?


	2. Chapter 2

**Two.**

 

Hannibal cannot discern Will’s personal luminescence from the early morning light that floods their kitchen, the silvery moonlight that surrounds him burnished gold by the rising sun. In these moments, Hannibal can almost forget this strange occurrence for which he can find no explanation or cure. He can allow himself to simply enjoy the beauty of Will’s sleep-softened face, the way he sags into his chair at the counter and wraps his hands around the cup of coffee Hannibal pushes towards him. The way he smiles with easy gratitude and murmurs, “Mornin’” with a trace of a past life in his accent.

But then Hannibal’s eyes adjust and Will’s silvery edges reassert themselves, along with the anxiety that has become Hannibal’s constant companion. He has pored over learned texts and speculative articles, research from every relevant field he can think of, in an attempt to find some explanation for this phenomenon, with no success. Nothing can explain what is happening to Will and therefore Hannibal must consider the possibility that in fact nothing is happening to him at all.

He has entertained thoughts of keeping silent on the subject. It would not be the first time he has let Will burn without informing him and it is impossible to ignore how beautiful Will is like this. He could observe in silence, as he did once before, cataloguing the quirks and nuances of Will’s new condition: the way laughter seems to cause the air to sparkle around him, or a warm meal sets the light around him pulsating in gentle waves.

Or the way it dims whenever Hannibal stands close to him.

It is this, above anything else, that pushes Hannibal to finally bring it up to Will. There is an ache in his chest when it happens, a flare of rejection when the light dies in Will’s eyes at his touch. He feels… possessive, as if this light is something that will rob Will from him and that will not do after Hannibal has put so much effort into claiming him from everything and everyone else. So he asks. And Will, as ever, gives the least predictable response.

“So you see it too, huh?”

Hannibal takes a breath. And then another. Will looks at him, unruffled, and takes another bite of the eggs Hannibal had persuaded him to accept for breakfast, rather than black coffee and muttered threats to return to bed.  Eventually, when it becomes clear that Will has achieved the rare feat of causing Hannibal to lose his words, he takes pity on him.

“Thought I was maybe hallucinating again.”

Another breath and then, “As did I,” Hannibal admits, slow and cautious.

Will glances up at him and Hannibal sees the light around him flare, as if Will is putting up defences. His tone is wry when he speaks, though, spiked only with the smallest remnant of bitterness.

“Not pleasant, is it? Thinking you can’t trust your own eyes, the integrity of your thoughts.”

Hannibal only shakes his head in response. If he is capable of looking shamefaced, he suspects he is now.

“How long were you going to wait before bringing it up?” Will seeks out his eyes and Hannibal lets him see, reluctant to ever deny Will the opportunity. “You… thought about not saying anything. You think it’s beautiful, this thing. You thought it was beautiful the last time I was lit up too, you wanted to watch what happened. What’s the matter this time? Your favourite toy not so much fun anymore? Not enjoying the game, Hannibal?” He smirks, and perhaps it is meant to be cruel, but it shows only amusement at Hannibal’s predictability, like he is a dog yet to be broken of a bad habit.

Hannibal can’t find the words, pinned under that gleaming blue gaze, and so he simply comes to stand next to Will and lets him watch as the light around him dims. Then, telegraphing his movements, Hannibal raises his hand and moves it to hover above Will’s arm. This will be the first time they have touched since Will healed enough to no longer need medical care and Hannibal doesn’t want to spook him. He lets his hand just graze against Will’s skin at first, and Will is less skittish than he used to be, it seems, because he doesn’t flinch at all, just watches as the silvery glow darkens to a faint outline.

“Huh. Hadn’t noticed that before. Wonder what it means.” Will quirks a brow at Hannibal and smirks. “Are you my cure, doctor?”

“Perhaps I am the darkness that extinguishes your light.”

Will brings up a hand to cup Hannibal’s cheek, a perfect echo of the way Hannibal had touched him so many times before. Was it so many? Those instances are replicated so often in the chambers of his mind palace he can’t be sure anymore.

“I got here on my own, eventually,” Will says, his smirk softening into something fond, “but I do appreciate your company. Have you been worrying about this, Hannibal?”

Hannibal ducks his head, realising a second too late that they have reversed roles, Will a steady and confident foil to his own sudden avoidance. “Merely observing the effect of different stimuli on your condition, Will.”

Will snorts, but his face does not take on that snarling edge that so often accompanies his humour. “Once a doctor, always a doctor, huh?”

“You don’t seem perturbed by this development. It would behove us that someone takes your health seriously.” It’s petty and unfair, and Hannibal knows it. Regret takes hold of him instantly but like so many of his rash actions when it comes to Will, there is no way to finesse his way out of it.

Will’s face shutters, and he leans away from Hannibal, shaking off his arm in the process. The glowing field reasserts itself around him and Will looks down at it with one of those grimacing smiles that mean he is truly angry. “Well look at that, maybe my body is trying to tell me something after all. I do feel a hell of a lot lighter when I’m nowhere near you.”

Will pushes himself up from his chair and spins on his heel, marching out of the kitchen and up to his room. Hannibal hears the door slam and winces. That was not well done of him. He is not used to anyone pressing on his nerves and Will plays them so expertly, the effect is breathtaking, a white hot shock to the centre of Hannibal’s being. It causes him to lash out ungracefully and so undo any progress he has made with Will. Love is a strange and delicate thing, and while Hannibal can cut with a scalpel so finely that the incision is barely visible, with this he is crude and ungainly. He does not enjoy it.

Hannibal will make it up to Will, somehow. He cannot procure a dog just yet, which would likely be the easiest means by which to buy Will’s favour, but there will be other ways. He will give Will space for a few hours and then approach him gently, offering apologies and concessions. Likely Will won’t accept them, but perhaps the effort will be appreciated nonetheless. Eventually he will come round. What other choice does he have? In the meantime, Hannibal has got what he wanted from the exchange, confirmation that he has not lost his grip on his mind, that whatever is happening to Will is real, and tangible.

 _Folie a deux_. A whisper brushes his mind, Bedelia’s voice, a tinge of disdain colouring the professional detachment of her tone. Like a drop of ink in water, it blackens the whole until it is all he can hear, but he cares little about it. If he is to go mad, at least he can share it with Will; he will be content to lose himself so long as Will is lost with him. And in the meantime, he had indeed once watched Will burn from the inside with endlessly beautiful results. He can only hope that this light will match it in beauty and not in pain. Will’s pain is no longer so compelling to him as it once was.


	3. Chapter 3

**Three.**

 

They begin killing together. To Hannibal’s delight it is Will’s request that they do so. He presents Hannibal with a dossier, filled with meticulously compiled research into a particularly unpleasant character he’d found living nearby, handing it over as if it were necessary for him to do anything more than ask. As if Hannibal has not worked for years to bring them to this point. He indulges Will, of course, knowing that it is more something for Will to cling to during these last steps of his becoming than a true necessity. Besides, it would be rude to ignore all the hard work Will has done.

And indeed, Will has done excellent work. His chosen prey is despicable, a pathetic bully of a man who abuses all those around him with an inventiveness that speaks of enjoyment. He will not be mourned by a single living soul and there will be little reason for his death to be investigated further than a perfunctory police report. Unless, of course, they choose to display him but Hannibal suspects this will be too much to expect of Will’s first foray into deliberate, premeditated killing.

In this he is correct but not for the reasons he suspects. When Will is finished with the body there is little left that could be elevated to art, and certainly not to Hannibal’s kitchen. He cannot find it within himself to regret this though, for the spectacle of Will indulging his every violent impulse in bloody and wild strokes is quite the most transcendent image Hannibal has ever witnessed. He is painted head to toe in blood and viscera, a being composed of wrathful grace and fatal motion. And through it all he shines ever brighter, his gleaming aura intensifying under Hannibal’s gaze and bathing his unworthy prey in an eerie glimmer. Such a privilege, Hannibal thinks, for this to be the last thing this pig ever sees, he is almost angry at Will for giving anyone but him the gift of this sight. 

Later, when they are at home, Will laughs and shudders and leans against Hannibal, once again dimming in his presence. “I thought it might…” he trails off and looks up at Hannibal with something uncomfortably close to adoration. “I thought it might not feel the same.”

“But it does?” Hannibal asks.

“Better. It felt even better,” Will responds and Hannibal tries not to feel stung by this. Privately, he had wondered if Will felt as he does, that the night they slew the Dragon was a moment removed from all others, perfection that could never hope to be surpassed. That he does not feels like rejection and it takes Hannibal a few moments to recover enough to share in Will’s victorious giddiness.

He assumes it will also take Will some time to recover from this momentous act he has just undertaken, to come to terms with becoming the thing he fought for so many years to evade. After Hannibal’s own first murder, he had been exultant but drained, shocked by the way he had tilted the world on its axis and the world had simply continued to rotate. Will, however, waits only until the negligible enquiry into his victim’s death has passed before he is holding out a second folder, accompanied this time by a badly-concealed grin. Hannibal flips through it and fixes Will with a look.

“For whose benefit is this, Will? You surely cannot think I require convincing.”

Will shrugs and Hannibal watches the line of iridescence around him shift with the motion. “Just figured you might enjoy this kind of reading material. I know you’re still partial to TattleCrime, thought getting a look at some decent investigative work might be a refreshing change.”

This time, Will makes sure Hannibal is involved in the kill, makes sure that he is equally covered in the evidence of their crime.

This time, Will glows so brightly that he would outshine the stars, were they visible beyond the city’s lights.

And this time, Will does not lean on Hannibal when they come home. He nods, as if in acknowledgement of a job well done, and departs with a remark about needing a shower. Hannibal does not see him until the next morning.

He wonders if Will is beginning to pull away. It has always been a possibility, that Will, once emerged from his chrysalis, would surpass Hannibal both in appetite and ability. Perhaps Will has sensed the coming eclipse and plans to make it easier on himself to deliver whatever blow he deems necessary.

Hannibal sees no need to tell him that he will not allow them to separate again without at least one death between them. He is sure Will has already figured that out.

Again and again they do this. Will chooses a target and plans the kill, and brings Hannibal along almost as a passenger, making sure he partakes of the act itself – and, indeed, Hannibal is now allowed to harvest organs before Will sates himself on the body – but then detaching himself from Hannibal’s presence the moment they are home again. Again and again, Will’s bloodlust increases, his kills becoming ever more frantic and brutal, the wait between them narrowing exponentially. And again and again Will’s light increases, until it almost hurts Hannibal to look at him.

It hurts in any case, Hannibal growing increasingly frustrated by his inability to discover any explanation for Will’s strange condition. He has pored over the most obscure, arcane articles, from cultures the world over, but to no avail. This is more fairytale magic than science and Hannibal wants to believe that the knot that is constantly present in his chest is due to irritation at the idea that the world has bent its rules for this and not in the way he has so often longed to shape it.

He cannot fool himself, though. It is not frustration that lodges in his chest and beats its frantic wings against his ribs. It is fear, unrestrained and unrelenting, fear that something is happening to Will that he can neither understand nor influence, something that might cleave them in two where neither Uncle Jack, nor the Dragon, nor Hannibal himself could manage. It rises in his throat with all the bitterness of bile and Hannibal is sick with it.

He resolves to speak with Will once again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Four.**

 

Out of the house is best, Hannibal thinks, for this discussion. He has carefully planned and rehearsed what he will say: Will’s actions are dangerous, for both of them; Will must relent, and allow Hannibal to guide his urges; Will is changing, and Hannibal does not know why and he is…

It is this last part that will be most difficult, for Hannibal to say and for Will to believe. Hannibal Lecter is not a man capable of fear. Hannibal Lecter is not a man capable of caring for another person. Hannibal Lecter is not a man who could fall in love and feel himself break apart with the thought of losing that person.

Except Hannibal Lecter is all those things.

First, he cooks them dinner. Seafood stew and fresh baked bread, something familiar and comforting for Will, something rustic yet refined that suits them both. He does not force conversation upon him, nor does he comment when Will asks for a beer despite his meal clearly being better suited to the wine Hannibal had picked out. He wants Will to feel relaxed, as much as he is capable of it in Hannibal’s presence, wants that beautiful, worrisome glow around him to soften the sharp edges it seems to have forged of late. He has little hope that a warm meal, alcohol and quiet companionship will do much to bring this about, but he can think of little else with which to lower Will’s prodigious defences. At least with them seated close together, it is dimmed enough so that Hannibal can look at Will without squinting.

After, Hannibal suggests a postprandial walk and Will agrees with surprisingly little persuasion required. Hannibal quickly decides that he may as well enjoy this détente they seem to have reached and so it’s not until they are, once again, trailing through the back streets towards home, with Will’s light dancing on the rain-slicked cobbles, that Hannibal draws a breath in order to speak. He grasps Will by the elbow, pulling him back gently with the intention of leading him to the cover of a nearby park so that they will not be disturbed (and there will be no way for Will to beat a hasty retreat). Will looks at him as he touches, and instead of the annoyance Hannibal is expecting, there is open surprise and… gratitude? Relief?

Hannibal forgets he is supposed to be moving at all as he attempts to parse this expression, so different to the closed-off, blank looks Will has worn in his presence of late. He tries to think what is different, what can have happened to shock Will into throwing off his mask, and realises that this is the first time they have touched in weeks. Touched like this, anyway, not an accidental brush of hands as they pass in a hallway or a foot wandering too far under the dining table, but deliberate and desired.

And effective, Hannibal notices, the aura surrounding Will not just fading at his touch but actively draining away, allowing the darkness to gather closer around them. Will turns fully to face Hannibal and takes a step towards him, still illuminated enough for Hannibal to see his expression soften further, his eyes flicker across Hannibal’s face, his lips part as if to speak, or, perhaps, to–

Hannibal does not get to finish his line of thought because as he is leaning down towards Will, remembering how it felt to do this on top of a cold cliff in the light of the moon, a man charges straight between them, knocking Hannibal’s hand from where it still grasps Will’s elbow.

“ _Sortez de la putain de chemin, connards,_ ” the man growls as he barrels past, and Hannibal’s head whips round, predatory senses flaring, tracking the man as he jogs to the end of the street and disappears around a corner. He physically forces himself to suppress the urge to follow him and remove such an unfortunate blight from the universe – a sad but necessary sacrifice in order to continue whatever was about to happen between him and Will. But as he turns back to resume their exchange, he finds he cannot look at Will. The light around him has grown to blinding proportions, and Hannibal flings an arm up to cover his eyes, seeing only the faintest outline of Will’s form after he does so. Will is tensed and stiff with rage and before Hannibal can say a word he bursts past him, along the trajectory of the oaf who interrupted them. Hannibal is left with nothing but the afterburned image of his face, contorted in fury, floating nightmare-like in the window of his vision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sortez de la putain de chemin, connards" = "Get out of the fucking road, assholes" (or at least I hope it does, feel free to correct me!).


	5. Chapter 5

**Five.**

 

Hannibal runs. It had taken him a moment to gather himself after Will had parted from him, and so he had lost him by the time he reached the end of the street. But he has no trouble following. Will’s light has grown so great, it is the North Star to Hannibal’s little boat lost at sea, reaching up to the heavens to black out the moon and all her little satellites. He follows it through the backstreets, their twisting, labyrinthine structure unfolding beneath Hannibal’s feet, and he does not falter, trusting Will to reel him in.

Finally he sees. An alleyway with a blaze of light beckons to him and he goes towards it, stumbling and desperate. Sounds of fighting come to him as he approaches, the wet smack of flesh on flesh and the broken moans of pain that are usually a symphony to him but now hold nothing but fear. He supposes, somewhere in the distant part of his mind still capable of rational thought, that this is a fair simulacrum of how his victims must feel, frightened and helpless. He wonders if they, too, retain this oddly detached part of their consciousness while they die, this tiny fraction of their panic-logged mind observing with cool dispassion as their life is torn from them.

Shielding his eyes is not enough; as he turns into the alley, Hannibal is helpless to stop his eyelids from closing against the searing white light that floods his vision. Strangely, though, he finds that he can see better this way, the shape of Will and his victim etched in fiery lines against the dark. He does not question it, only makes his way towards Will, needing nothing but to know that he is all right.

In Hannibal’s dreams of late, Will has begun to take the form of an angel, his great white wings stretching towards heaven as he wields a blade of fire against those he deems unworthy. Often, it is Hannibal who takes the brunt of his wrath. Hannibal considers his imagination to have been disappointingly obvious in insisting on this repeated manifestation, and considering the scene he approaches now, he knows it to be true. There is nothing angelic in Will now, as he tears with fists and fingers through the unworthy pig’s flesh. He is infernal, demonic, radiant in the heat and incandescent blaze of his fury. He is nothing Hannibal could ever have imagined and everything he could have wished for.

And he is sobbing. Will is sobbing uncontrollably, even as he sets his teeth to the already-dead man’s throat and tears, ripping out his jugular as Hannibal had once done to the Dragon. It pulls Hannibal from his fascinated trance and he calls Will’s name, calls it over and over again until he finally lifts his head and sees him.

“Help me,” he pleads, “I can’t stop, I can’t make it stop,” and turns back to begin pummelling the ruined corpse once more, shaking with tears as he does so. Hannibal is on him in a second, bodily dragging him off the corpse and further into the alley. Will is twitching and convulsing, and so, so hot Hannibal can barely stand to touch him, and yet he clutches him as close as possible, the scent of their shared terror acrid in his nose.

“Hannibal,” Will whimpers, his fingers clawing at his back, “Hannibal, Hannibal.”

“I’m here, darling Will, I have you.”

“I couldn’t stop, I wanted to destroy him, I needed…” Will takes a shuddering, painful sounding breath. “It’s so bright, Hannibal, you’re holding me and it’s still so bright. I think…”

“Hush, Will,” Hannibal cuts him off, unable to bear what Will is about to say, and pulling him closer because it is the only thing he can think to do.

They stay that way for many long minutes, Hannibal gently rocking Will until he is calmer. But his heat is still climbing, the light from him still intensifying, though it does not seem to bother Will’s eyes at all. Eventually Hannibal will no longer be able to hold him without burning, and Will must realise this, because he pulls away a little and looks up at Hannibal. He reaches up and touches each of Hannibal’s closed eyelids in turn, almost childlike, and then moves his hand up into his hair, brushing it upwards.

“I wish you could look at me.”

“I see you, Will. I always have.”

Will opens his mouth to say something, hesitates for a moment, and then seems to decide. “Have you always loved me?”

“I cannot remember a time when I did not.” It is true. The past and the future are so blurred together that Hannibal cannot conceive of a moment in which his love for Will did not burn as brightly as the light that surrounds them. 

Will huffs a little laugh and quirks a smile at Hannibal. “Funny, neither can I, anymore.”

A sob breaks from Hannibal’s throat and he hates it, feels flayed alive by Will’s confession and the unfairness of this stupid, inexplicable thing that is pulling them apart. Will lets his hand drop to Hannibal’s cheek and then down further, to the corner of his mouth.

“Remember what I said to you, in the house that night?” Will asks, and Hannibal cannot possibly know which house he means, or which words he is referring to, except he does, he knows, he feels what Will is about to say and it hurts. “Maybe I couldn’t save myself after all. Glad I got a little time though, to be with you behind the veil.”

Hannibal is crying openly now and he cannot bear the pain in his chest, mixing with the pain of holding Will’s scalding body until he cannot tell one from the other.

“Just one thing left to do, now,” Will says, and then he is pulling Hannibal down to him, bringing their lips together in a sear of heat and light.

Hannibal tries to pour everything into it, years of love and pain and need. He tries to put his very soul into this kiss, because what use does he have for it if Will is gone?

The light around them swells until it is nearly solid, pressing in upon them like a threat. And for only the second time in his life, it is a threat Hannibal can do nothing to combat. So he loses himself in this kiss, their first and their last, instead.

There is only Will.

Then there is only whiteness.

And then there is nothing.


	6. Chapter 6

**Six.**

 

Darkness returns. Hannibal sees the trails of fire melt behind his eyes and knows it is safe to look. Except it will never be safe again, because Will is gone, he is cooling in Hannibal’s arms and perhaps it would be easier simply to keep his eyes closed, lie down beside him and never open them again.

“Hannibal?”

Will is speaking to him. Will is _speaking_ to him and Hannibal’s eyes flash open to see Will grinning up at him, half amusement and half joyful disbelief.

“Hi.”

Will’s eyes are sparkling, but not, Hannibal realises, with the same internal light that has been trapped in them for so many months. He checks the rest of Will’s body and sees that it has been returned to its former state, no inexplicable glow leeching from him. He looks at Will, staggered and speechless, and only grows more confused as the grin on Will’s face widens and he nods up towards the sky.

“Look.”

Hannibal does, reluctant though he is to look away from Will for a moment and feels his breath catch as he lifts his eyes. Above them, hovering in a carpet of silvery white light the length of the alleyway, are hundreds and hundreds of fireflies. It is the same light, Hannibal realises, that had surrounded and possessed Will, now shining down to envelop them both as they cling to each other.

“Seems my demons have flown,” Will says, looking up at Hannibal with a shrewd expression. “All but one, that is, but I think I’ll keep you.”

It shocks a laugh out of Hannibal, light and sparkling and he turns his face from the glimmering jewels above him to the far more beautiful sight below. Will is whole, and healthy, and here, and what is anything compared to that?

There is a movement above, a gleaming susurration of light as the fireflies rise in a moon-washed wave and disperse, a thousand flickering points of silver against the night sky. In the alleyway below, darkness returns, but neither Will nor Hannibal notice; they have never needed the light to see each other.


	7. Chapter 7

**Seven.**

 

“Do you think it’ll happen again?”

“I cannot say with any certainty. How do you feel, now?”

Will looks over at Hannibal from the passenger seat and seems to take stock of his own body. Perhaps it is the first time he has done so, Hannibal considers, since that moment in the alley. There has been little time in its aftermath: they are leaving Switzerland as quickly as possible, the remnants of Will’s kill impossible to eradicate, his DNA all over it anyway, and the resulting rush to set their escape in motion claimed most of their attention. The rest, to Hannibal’s considerable delight, was spent on shared kisses and long-repressed words and, on one occasion that has already been carefully hoarded inside his memories, Will shoving Hannibal against a wall so they could spend ten minutes kissing and rutting pleasantly against each other.

It is only the thought of crashing the car that holds Hannibal back from resuming their activities.

“I feel… normal? As normal as possible for a serial killer on the run, I guess,” Will says, with one of his characteristic smiles that are more of a grimace. Hannibal moves a hand to his thigh and smiles when Will catches hold of it, knitting their fingers together.

“Has your morality reasserted itself in the wake of your reprieve?” Hannibal asks, grateful for the fact that his voice doesn’t shake as he says it.

“Doesn’t appear to have raised its head so far,” Will says, and Hannibal knows he is smirking, “but I’ll keep you posted, doctor.” Hannibal only smiles, satisfied.

There is silence, then, for a few minutes, but apparently Will’s mind is not quite at ease. “What if it does happen again?” he asks, eventually, apparently trying to sound casual but only highlighting his anxiety.

“Then I suppose I will have to stay close to you, just in case. If that is acceptable to you,” Hannibal says, turning his head to toss a wide, teasing smile at Will, who smirks and shakes his head fondly.

“Yeah, I think I can deal with that.”

Hannibal hesitates for a moment, unsure of whether he wants to break this affectionate peace between them. It would, however, seem foolish to leave anything unresolved between them now. “You didn’t seem so keen on the idea for a long time.”

Will bows his head, looking at their interlocked hands for a long time before he speaks. When he does, it is with a mournful edge that Hannibal wants to eradicate immediately. “I know. I was… I felt out of control, Hannibal. I didn’t know what would happen if I let myself…”

“I thought perhaps you were pulling away, getting ready to leave me behind.”

Will’s head snaps back up, and he says, with unexpected vehemence, “Been down that road before, remember, I know where it leads. You’re not the darkness dragging me down, Hannibal, if that’s what you think.”

Hannibal concentrates on the road, glad of the excuse to avoid Will’s eyes. “I was worried your light would outshine me, Will.” He feels the fire of Will’s gaze licking at him, as Will waits defiantly for him to look over before he answers. Eventually Hannibal can stand it no longer, and turns towards Will, who finally speaks.

“It almost outshone _me_ , love, it almost burned me from the inside.” Hannibal takes this in, while trying to preserve the shape of Will’s mouth as he said _love_ within his mind palace. It seems it will likely be necessary to build a new wing, simply to make room for all the new ways Will continues to captivate him. “You’re the shade that protects me, don’t you see? I need you to keep me from burning alive.”

Hannibal feels the tension bleed from him, and something new, and warmer begins to take its place. “And what does that make you, _mylimasis_?”

“Good question.” Will grins playfully, squeezing Hannibal’s hand a little more tightly. “Am I the sun in your sky, the twinkle in your eye, the flame on your birthday cake candle?”

Hannibal takes their joined hands and brings them to his mouth, bestowing a gentle kiss upon Will’s raw, chewed up knuckles. “Perhaps you are my light in dark places, guiding me ever-homewards, ensuring that I do not become lost.”

Will gives a tiny, amused huff, and wriggles in his seat until he can lean over and put his head on Hannibal’s shoulder. “Does that mean we balance each other out, or inspire each other to greater heights?”

Hannibal feels the glow of contentment fill him, an entirely foreign but welcome feeling, and hopes that it flows within Will as well. “Both, my darling Will. With us, it is always both.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End. Thank you so much to all those who have left kudos and especially comments on this fic - it means the world, truly <3<3<3

**Author's Note:**

> Come flail with me on [tumblr](http://victorineb.tumblr.com)!


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